Because when I drain my coffee and see my face reflecting in the dark glossy bottom of the mug, my eyes are holding something that I can't blink away.

No matter how hard I try, it sits along my lashline, glazed over my pupil, reddening the corners and doubling my vision.

I set my mug down. I've dripped coffee on my t-shirt. My eyes are gripping tight to a sensation that is so painfully familiar that it almost feels welcome. Like I wouldn’t know what to do if it ever left.

It’s a scary comfort, curling up in that feeling. I know it so well. Sometimes I want to reach out and cradle it against my chest where it purrs like a childhood cat. It’s beautiful and black, sleek, with paws so big they weigh down on my chest. Makes it hard to breathe but I don't dare move.

My hands find reprised solace along the ridges of its back, petting patterns down its silky fur. When I look down all I see is its big yellow eyes, drowning my sight and filling every corner with that numbing company.

It's a dangerous cat, whose dark slivered pupils I see in my own. In the bottom of a mug, a storefront reflection, a dark screen. It's so comfortable that I sometimes forget to miss the feeling of being alone.

My legs are pins and needles where it sits in my lap. Makes it hard to believe I'll ever stand again. It's a blessing to have a quiet mind.

The cat purrs and purrs and purrs.

What was needed now had to be more important. These things tucked away behind the creases of the forehead. Wandering through the beer garden as it became night collecting glassware streaked with saliva and alcohol, soaking under the nail bed it was sticky. At times knuckle bones contort out of place, dragged by the weight of the things. Yet, slow considered steps proceed. Bedtime has come around, the house cat places his body upon your stomach cavity. There is a knowingness in the expelled oxygen which grazes the face. Something poised. This something never arrives.
At night dreams of mistaken food and drink orders trickle into the chiaroscuro room. They **** and disturb, not allowed to unhinge. Unable to delve deep enough, never touching the soft ground or the dream space. Always aware that the alarm clock would bookend this type of semi-rest.
The morning unravels itself. As if mornings were a ball of powder-blue threads teasing the screens of eyelids. Daring them to follow the traces, the bread crumb led spectacle.
Placing eyeliner upon the lashline at the wall mirror, there in the flecks of light stirred a flicker. Appearing less frosted for specks of breath. Spoke outloud, the first utterance of the day. What exactly has happened. Amongst the bones that set out the arena of her body, it seemed that there was no one there to be asked.